The bishop laughed. “Let us go topside, Niece. There’ll be no real dark this night, as it’s Midsummer’s Eve. We’ll get a good look at the island. I imagine its inhabitants will be celebrating the holiday with pagan fervor.”

They left the cabin together, and after Seamus O’Malley had given MacGuire his instructions, the two O’Malleys stood at the ship’s rail. Lundy got its name from the old Norse word, Lunde, which was the word for Puffin, a bird. The island loomed above the ship, great granite cliffs towering darkly into the lavender half-dusk.

The place had a barbaric beauty about it. The island was covered in pasturage upon which herds of sheep grazed. It also served as a breeding ground for sea birds. At one end of the island was a lighthouse. At the other stood the ramshackle ruins of de Marisco Castle, with the only landing place on the island.

MacGuire’s boat bumped the quay. Securing his craft, he quickly walked the length of the stone pier. At the end of the pier a ship’s supply shop had been set up alongside an inn. The inn was not crowded yet. MacGuire sat down at a table. A very buxom serving wench in a soiled blouse leered over him. “Wot’s your pleasure, Cap’n?”

“I want to see de Marisco.”

“Everyone does, dearie, but he don’t see just anyone.” “He’ll see me. I’m expected. From the O’Malley of Innisfana’s ship.”

“I’ll go ask,” said the girl, walking off.

O’Malley looked about him. The walls of the inn were the original stone walls of the castle, and they were damp with green mold. The rushes on the floor had seen better days, and were matted down and mixed with old bones for which several scrawny dogs now snarlingly vied. The few tables were none too clean, and both the fireplace and the tallow torches smoked.

The wench returned. “He says you’re to follow me.” MacGuire got to his feet and hurried after the girl. Anything was better than this hellhole. The serving wench led him up a flight of open stone steps, stopping at the top to knock on the massive oak door. “In there, Cap’n.” MacGuire pushed through into the room, and his jaw dropped in surprise.

The room was positively opulent, the most splendid the Irishman had ever seen. The walls were hung with velvet and silk tapestries, the stone floors covered by magnificent, thick sheepskins. A huge fireplace bumed with sweet-scented applewood even on this Midsummer’s Eve. On the long oak table were two large golden, twisted candelabra burning beeswax tapers.

In a great thronelike chair at the table’s head sprawled a giant. Though he was seated, MacGuire could see that he must stand at least six foot six inches tall. His hair was as black as night, as was his full, well-barbered beard. His eyes were a sensuous smoky blue. He sported a gold earring in his left ear. His doublet was of fine, soft leather, his white silk shirt was open, revealing a thick mat of hair growing upward from his navel. His hose were a dark-green wool, and his huge brown leather boots rose well over his knees. In his lap sat two pretty young girls, both naked from the waist up, who were feeding dainties from silver platters to the lord of Lundy. “Sit down, man!” came the booming command. “Glynis!” Adam de Marisco dumped one of the girls from his lap. “Serve my guest.” The girl good-naturedly picked herself up off the floor, rubbing her prettily rounded posterior as she did so, and poured a goblet of wine for MacGuire. MacGuire swallowed hard at the close proximity of the girl’s big breasts. The nipples were as large as Spanish grapes. “She’s yours for the night,” chuckled de Marisco, and Glynis cheerfully plumped herself into the Irishman’s lap. MacGuire grinned, delighted. “I like your style of hospitality, by God I do, m’lord! If the O’Malley doesn’t sail tonight, I will gladly accept your gift.” He raised the goblet to his host. “Your health, sir!” De Marisco nodded. “I’ll see your master as soon as he comes ashore. This will be a busy night, with many celebrations. Would the O’Malley and his men like to join us?”

MacGuire hid a smile. “I’ll go immediately, and take the O’Malley your invitation.” MacGuire stood, dumping poor Glynis. De Marisco was bored tonight. As the Irishman left the room, he wondered if the O’Malley’s visit would herald any excitement. He doubted it. But several minutes later his smoky eyes widened with surprise as the captain returned with the O’Malley. “Christ’s sacred bones!” he swore. “A woman!? What the hell kind of a joke is this, MacGuire?”

“My lord, this is the O’Malley of Innisfana.”

“I don’t do business with women,” came the flat reply.

“Afraid, my lord?” drawled Skye softly.

With a roar of outrage the giant stood, dumping the one remaining girl from his lap. She scrambled up and cowered with Glynis while Adam de Marisco stomped over to Skye and towered over her in his most intimidating manner. MacGuire began getting a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Though he was a brave man, he was old, and he hadn’t a chance against this giant.

De Marisco stared fiercely down. The woman, instead of trembling like the other two females, stared boldly up at him. He began to cool down a little, and realized that he liked what he saw. He began to chuckle. She was a brave one, and beautiful as well. “I own,” she began abruptly, “close to two dozen ships of various sizes. One of my fleets has just finished a successful three-year voyage to the East Indies. I’m a rich woman. I have a quarrel with someone in a high place. To avenge myself against this person I’ll need assurance that Lundy Isle is open to my ships. You’ll be paid well.”

De Marisco was instantly intrigued. “How high a place?” he asked.

“Elizabeth Tudor,” came the cool reply.

“The Queen?” He whistled. “Are you serious, woman, or merely mad?” He peered down at the woman who faced him. “By God, you are serious!” He began to chuckle, and the chuckle grew into a great roar of mirth that shook the entire room.

Skye stood her ground, unblinking. “Well, de Marisco, do we do business or do we not?”

“How much?” A crafty look narrowed his eyes.

“Name your own price-within reason,” she answered. “We’ll discuss this alone, O’Malley,” said de Marisco. “MacGuire, why don’t you take Glynis and her sister downstairs.” “M’lady?” The Irishman looked to Skye.

“Go along, MacGuire. I’d spend a full year feeling guilty if I denied you such choice company. Tell the men that they may come ashore for the celebrations. Alternate the watch so they may all have a bit of fun.” MacGuire hesitated, and Skye laughed. “Oh, Lord, man, you’re such an old woman! De Marisco, give my man your word you’ll not harm me, or we’ll never get down to business.” “You’ve got it. Good God, Captain, do I look like a ravager of helpless women?”

MacGuire reluctantly withdrew, and de Marisco motioned Skye to the chair the Irishman had recently vacated. Pouring her some wine, he shoved the ornate silver goblet at her. She sipped at the ruby liquid, smiling appreciatively at the excellent vintage. De Marisco eyed her closely again, and then reopened the discussion. “So I may name my own price-within reason, eh?” “That is correct.”

“I don’t need money, madam. There’s precious little to spend it on here, and I’ve more than enough at any rate. So what’s within reason, eh?” He drank a bit of wine. “What’s your name? I can’t believe your intimates call you just O’Malley.”

She gave him her best smile, and he felt his heart lurch. “My name is Skye.”

“For the island?”

“My mother came from there.”

“You look Irish, but your speech is of England and of Ireland.

Why?”

“You are certainly nosy, de Marisco. I offered you a straight business proposition, not the story of my life.”

The smoky blue eyes narrowed. “I like to know with whom I’m doing business, Skye O’Malley.”

Her eyes flashed. He continued. “You tell me that you wish to wage war on the Queen of England. Before I risk my small standing, I’d like to know why I should join your personal war.” She considered a moment, then nodded. “My late husband was the Earl of Lynmouth. You can see the lights of my castle from your own windows. When Geoffrey died several months ago, from the white throat, he left me sole guardian to our combined families, my own children, his children, and our son, who is Geoffrey’s heir. But Queen Elizabeth overruled his will in the case of Geoffrey’s heir, and sent her favorite, Robert Dudley, to be our son’s governor. The Earl forced his attentions upon me, and when I complained to the Queen she told me quite frankly that she wanted me to accept those attentions. She expects me to act as her whore in order to keep her favorite happy. Both my late husband and I were loyal servants to the Queen while we were at Court. I don’t deserve this shabby treatment, but I can’t endanger my son by doing anything openly against Elizabeth.”

De Marisco sucked in his breath sharply. He was an ethical man in his own way, for all his business “ventures” were considered unorthodox. “Well, she’s Harry Tudor’s brat for sure, and as ruthless as both her father and that witch who spawned her, Anne Boleyn. All right, Skye O’Malley, Countess of Lynmouth, tell me what you plan and then we’ll see if I’ll help you.”

“My English fleet brings great riches to England, and the Queen accepts a fat share of it. Her coffers fill daily with the profits of all ships doing business from England. If my Irish ships rob selected vessels, including my own so that no suspicion falls on me, then I hurt the Queen in an area where she can least afford it. But the pain will not be made public. That is why I need the island of Lundy, de Marisco. It is only eleven miles off the Devon coast, and I can be here and back within a single day if necessary. “My privateers can be safe here on Lundy, and no one will be the wiser. You wouldn’t try to tell me that all the goods going through this island are legal trade, now would you?”. Adam de Marisco laughed pleasantly. “It seems, Skye O’Malley, that you need me a hell of a lot more than I need you. Nevertheless I’m not adverse to a bit of piracy, so I’ll make you a proposition. You can have my aid, and sanctuary on Lundy for your ships in exchange for one percent of the goods you take, and-“ he paused a moment, then finished quickly, “and if you’ll spend this night in my bed.”

She went white. Recovering quickly, she said, ‘Two percent of the goods taken, and not a penny more.”

“One percent, and this night,” he repeated, a mischievous smile flickering across his handsome face.

“Why?!” she burst out.

“Because you are beautiful and a lady, and I know of no other way for someone like me to possess something so fabulously rare as someone like you.” She seemed genuinely troubled, and he continued, “Come, Skye O’Malley, if you really desire vengeance on your enemy then no price is too high. It’s only one night, sweetheart.” Skye was torn. She knew her plan was flawless, but it could succeed only if she had the use of Lundy. She thought of Elizabeth Tudor calmly admitting to using her. She thought of Robert Dudley and his perverted, degrading possession of her-a possession which had in all likelihood only just begun.

Now Adam de Marisco wished to possess her also, but he at least offered a fair return. She sighed, ruefully recalling Robbie’s warning that unless she married again she would be prey to men. She looked at the huge man, and realized that he was not unattractive. If she were lucky, he was also not as debauched as Dudley. “Until midnight,” she bargained.

He shook his head. “The whole night, and no weeping or lying limp like a dead thing.”

“Dammit, man, I’m no whore to perform for you!” “Precisely, Skye O’Malley. You’re a beautiful and, I suspect, a passionate woman. I want no holding back of those passions because of mistaken virtue. I should be far more shocked by a lack of fire in you than an abundance of it.”

She blushed furiously, and his laughter rumbled about the room like distant thunder. “Is it agreed, then?” He held out his hand. She hesitated, then grasped the great paw with her own elegant hand. She wasn’t protecting any maidenhead, and so much was at stake.

“It’s agreed,” she answered him.

“I should like to hear you say my Christian name, Skye O’Malley.”

“Very well, Adam, I agree.”

“I’m not a bad fellow,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.” That innocent reassurance comforted her. “I’ll have to direct my people first. I’ll need an hour or two, and I’d prefer it if our liaison tonight were kept secret.”

“Of course,” he assured her. “I have no need to brag.” “And then there’s my uncle, the Bishop of Connaught. He travels with me.”

Adam de Marisco had the good grace to look abashed, and a small giggle escaped Skye. He grinned at her. “That’s a nice sound, Skye O’Malley. you should laugh more often. Well, now, and how do we rid ourselves of the bishop?”